Voyeur
by Ros3bud009
Summary: France is a voyeur in the truest sense, and has figured out the patterns of nations and humans alike. So why can't he figure out England? And an equally decent question, why on earth had he taken him up on that challenge! FrUK


France had greatly underestimated his beer-loving companion, he realized, when he woke up with a pounding headache and a great distaste for sunlight coming through his window.

Why on earth _had _he accepted England's challenge? For the life of him, he couldn't recall through the fog that settled in his brain. Or what the point of the challenge was. All he could remember is that there _was _a challenge.

Alright. From the start. Perhaps that will clarify things.

After the latest World Conference the majority of the nations decided to go out on the town. Of course, not everyone agreed on where to go. Norway, Iceland, Finland, Denmark, and even Sweden all stopped by a store to buy out all their glow sticks before running off down some stairs to a door at the bottom, out of which a great plethora of colored lights and strobes spilled out across the concrete. America dragged his unfortunate brother to the bright pair of golden arches down the street, shouting that they were open 24/7. Russia and his sisters stopped at a local Russian restaurant while the Baltic countries all raced on by, hoping to god he would not invite them to join him. At that point Poland had grabbed Lithuania and dragged him off to the same club the Scandinavians had raced off to. Turkey and Egypt entered a quiet establishment that had drapery all over the walls while Greece opted to join Japan in sitting on the grass at the local park, equally quiet and peaceful. At least it was until Australia had bounded into the lake, rising from the water crying his victory with a large frog in his grasp. Sealand had been left with him by Finland and Sweden, and in turn dragged Latvia away with him, and he hooted in delight when Australia placed the amphibian on his shoulder. Latvia however squealed when it jumped on him, begging Sealand to take it off. China dragged the uninterested Hong Kong into a local Chinese restaurant, followed by the ever rambunctious Korea, who was declaring that Chinese food was invented by him, and Taiwan, who was silent and did her best to hide her blush when Hong Kong asked why she was coming along too.

And of course there were other stragglers who just went off and did whatever they had wanted to do. But at that point Prussia and Spain dragged France into their favorite bar in the area.

It was surprisingly packed, or so someone visiting the bar may think, but any regular could tell them it wasn't all that odd a situation. This bar was one of the best and largest, and so a great number of the nations chose to go there after the meetings.

Some were there before him, and some followed after, but ultimately within the hour everyone who would be there was, and all had a drink in hand. France perched himself up on a stool and watched the crowd eagerly. Over there he saw Italy talking Germany's head off, getting closer and touchier with every gulp of the cloudy drink in his glass. It was dark, but anyone could see the beet red color on the large nation's face when Italy whispered something into his ear, wrapping his arms around his neck for support. Odds were that they would be leaving soon, if the look on Germany's face was any indication of how close he was to just throwing the Italian against the bar and getting to it. He always pulled Italy back to their room before doing anything like that.

Which, France noted, Austria and Hungary had not had the decency to do, and he would not hold that against them. In fact, he couldn't help grinning into his glass. He found it highly amusing when he saw the usually straight-laced Austria fall victim to his ex-wife's straight-forward advances. They may have been divorced since the end of the Great War, but Hungary hadn't lost her touch.

All of the South American countries had come, and were speaking rapidly at Spain, who was doing his best to, yet again, tell them how Spanish was _supposed _to be spoken. Or so France assumed, but while he knew Spanish (Spain made sure of that) he wasn't paying close enough attention to understand completely. He had tried time and again to tell his friend to give up, as he had with Canada and his strange creation he tried to call French, but he simply wouldn't. So France gave up.

Romano didn't look happy about it though, as he sat there, clearly furious about being ignored. Eventually he simply got up and left, deciding that it was time for him to try to defend his brother from Germany's demonic perversity. France smirked to himself, wondering how long it would take for Spain to realize his companion was gone. Probably about the time Germany threw the fuming Italian in his face while racing out of the bar with his own Italian in arm.

"Your being a voyeur again, aren't you, you pervert," Prussia chuckled as he returned with his third pint of beer. France shrugged, grinning. His friends liked to tease him for his joy in watching others interact. But really, he was a voyeur in the truest sense. It wasn't necessarily sexy, just interesting. People were fascinating, and the way they interacted more so. And he had done it for so long that he noticed things and patterns that others didn't.

"What can I say, people, they are very interesting to watch. You would learn something if you watched them too, you know."

"Right, like what, what color Hungary's panties are?"

"Black with red lace, but that is beside the point," France chided, and grinned when he saw Germany grab Romano by the collar and Italy by the wrist. "Like your brother over there, what is he going to do now?"

"Fuck, I dunno," Prussia said uninterestedly. "Not bend Italy over a table and do him up the ass right here? Even though he soooooo wants to. And really, red lace?"

"Agreed, and yes, red lace, but see here; he is about to throw Romano at Spain and cause a big raucous over by all the Spanish-speakers, and then drag Italy right on out of here, probably stopping only to eye Austria and Hungary disapprovingly as he goes."

"Really now? What the hell, you psychic now France?" Prussia laughed. France took a sip of his wine.

"Just watch."

Ultimately, it was just as he had explained, but even better. Germany threw Romano, but evidently was more drunk than France had figured as he literally tossed the nation at Spain. He turned just in time to catch Romano, but fell backwards into Mexico, and the momentum continued until at least five of the countries littered the ground.

"¡Idiotas! ¿¡Qué hacen!?"

"¡Vos bastardos! Y tú, ¡use vosotros!"

"¡Nunca, tú chingado conquistador! ¡Va y coge tu puto ya!"

"Callate, México, ¡y no te lo llames un puto!"

At this point Germany was headed towards the door and was about to pass the couple making out by the bar. However, Austria sucked on that spot on Hungary's ear that made her jolt with pleasure and kick out her leg, which Germany promptly bumped into. He of course glowered at the couple, making some comment to them, and Hungary merely rolled her eyes and literally kicked his ass, telling him to just leave already before dragging Austria back down into another kiss. She was a mean drunk, that one.

France couldn't help the smirk as he took in Prussia's shocked expression.

"Well shit France… hey, what were Spain and them saying?"

"Something about which pronouns to use and telling Spain to just go and fuck his fag."

"Nice. Always could count on Mexico to hit Spain where it hurts." And the two of them continued to drink, Prussia making off-color comments and France nodding appropriately while skimming the bar for something new to watch.

Eventually he settled on England's frame, sitting further down the bar and nursing a pint. He was calling up for another, and while the barman went to fill it, France asked for another glass of wine, and inquired as to how many glasses 'Arthur' had had. The barman had lost count, but England already gave him a great sum of cash, so he didn't really care about counting. However, he figured he was doing well for himself.

Prussia snickered at France. "Creeper."

"It's not creeping, it's devotion."

"Yeah, well where I'm from, that's stalking."

"Is it still stalking if I go talk to him?" France inquired, but didn't wait for an answer as he got up. Prussia grinned.

"You go get 'em. Even a voyeur needs to get laid once in a while."

"You know perfectly well that this voyeur gets laid more often than that," France smoothly replied before leaving his companion behind and walking towards England. He seemed to be engrossed enough in his drink to not notice France's approach, so the Frenchman thought a moment about the best way to greet him, before settling for draping himself across his shoulders and rubbing his stubbly chin into the crook of his neck.

England practically screamed and the pint hit the bar top with a clatter. "Ya git! Wha' the fuck was tha' for?!" France grinned maniacally.

England was already getting tipsy.

"Nothing, just wanted to say hi. You looked so _very_ alone, and I wanted to comfort you," he replied, continuing to rub his face against the other's neck. England shuddered under him.

"S-stop tha'! Ye know I hate it when ya do tha'!"

"Do what?"

"Rub you' beard all over me," England elaborated, now physically attempting to push the other away. But France merely moved his cheek up to the other's, scratching at his face. "Stop it! Gonna give me a rug burn o' somethin'!"

France practically purred, "Oh, but you _know _how I love to leave marks on you, mon cher. I like others to know where I have been…"

England had turned bright red, but still scowled and pushed the offending chin away. "Yeah, well, you're not going anywhere until ya shave o' somethin'…"

"Shave?" France asked, offended. "Why, I do so every day! I have to trim it to keep it just right you know. Takes work to make it look this good!"

England rolled his eyes and took a long drag off his drink. "Yeah, but I mean all th' way. Shaved clean, like a baby's bum, th' whole thin'."

At this, France felt himself pale. "You must be joking. Why would I ever want to do that?"

"Cause I said so?"

"I'm not that desperate," France replied, "and besides, we both know that the stubble hasn't stopped you in the past. In fact, I think you rather like the feeling of it against the inside of your soft, creamy thighs when I'm between them, licking--"

"Oi!" England shouted, slugging his shoulder. He was red as a beet, and it wasn't the alcohol. "Shut up, ya tosser!"

"Alright," France replied, languidly seating himself next to England and cradling his glass in his hand. And they actually sat in silence, France watching amusedly at the chaos still roaring around Spanish-speaking group, although now the language and cursing was so obscure and creative that he had a hard time keeping up. Prussia had gone over to hit on South Africa, who was giving him a very cold shoulder. And by now Belgium had had more than enough to drink, even for a gal with such a tolerance as she did, and was complaining viciously about the quality of the beer.

"Wha' if we made a bet?"

"Quoi?" France asked, turning and looking at England. The nation was grinning at him.

"I said, wha' if we made a bet? Ya know, if I win, you have to shave you' beard."

France smirked. "And if I win?"

England shrugged at that, replying, "I dunno, you tell me."

"Well, how badly do you want me to shave?" England shrugged nonchalantly, but France could see through him. "Alright, then how about you have to come back to my room, and this time wear that outfit you refused."

England blanched at that. "But tha'… tha's stupid! I mean, dammit France, it's a maid outfit. For a lady!"

"I know. Do you still want to make the bet?"

"Alright… but only if I get to choose th' challenge."

"Fine. What is your challenge then?" France asked. He was fairly certain that there was nothing that England could beat him at in his drunken state. England thought a moment, took a swig from his pint, and about that time felt inspired.

"Drinkin' contest."

"…What?"

"Ya heard me, a drinkin' contest. I'll drink ya under the table," England stated, grinning. France couldn't help snickering. Usually he wouldn't even think to take on such a challenge. He was no light-weight, but England was a monster when it came to alcohol. But right now, the Brit was at least half a dozen drinks ahead of him, if not more so, so the advantage was in his court.

"I'd like to see you try."

That was where France's memory stopped, more or less. He did remember everyone gathering round, Prussia and Spain at his back encouraging him while all the Latinos shouted "Tomen, tomen, tomen!"

Well, he also remembered it went on longer than expected. They both quickly lost their clothes, as was common, but England kept going and France had to follow. He recalled begging god to have the other just pass out already so that he wouldn't be hung over for the next week. France liked to drink, but this was a bit much.

France could not, for the life of him, remember who had won.

Only one way to find out the results, he thought. With a slow, shaky hand he pressed his fingers to his chin.

Nothing. Just smooth skin.

Shit.

His other hand joined its partner is feeling around his face, searching frantically for something, a mustache, side burns, a goatee, _anything _but there was nothing. Nothing but his face.

France felt his stomach drop.

And it wasn't just because he needed to vomit.

He raced to the bathroom, vomiting the remaining poisons from his system, and once done dared to glance into the mirror. And holy mother of Jesus, it really was gone. His face was, as England had put it the night before, smooth like a baby's bum.

France felt like he was a teenager again, and didn't really like it. At all.

"Well, well, well, look who decided to finally wake up this morning?" France couldn't help cringing before turning around and seeing England's smug expression. Not only could he drink like a monster, but he didn't even seem to take long to digest it all and be back to normal. He was a goddamn freak.

A freak whom France felt nothing but vile rise in his throat upon seeing.

But there weren't any words. None at all. All France could do was stare. England smirked at him and sauntered over. The smirk however was taken over by a look of absolute glee that crossed his face when he stroked his knuckles against the other nation's cheek, like that of a small child's on Christmas morn.

"…Do you really like it so well?" France was nearly as surprised as England was at his question. The smaller man blushed and dropped his hand as if he had been burnt. France could feel the blood finally run cleaner through his brain, and had enough brain cells available to know that he should be very, very amused. "I can't say I understand, as I feel like some youngster now. But I suppose some prefer their partners young…"

"Th-that's not it!" England bit out, glowering at him. "I just couldn't stand that scraggily looking stubble you had before. It looked so unrefined!"

"Not unrefined," France protested. "Rugged."

"Yeah, right."

"Besides, I can tell just from looking at your face, you really do like the look, hmm?" England continued to look appalled by the mere idea of such, but France paid it no mind. He pulled the small Brit close to him, rubbing his cheek against the side of his face and down his neck. England fought back, cursing him. "Oh, come now, mon cher, this is what you wanted, non?"

"Y-you idiot! Get off of me!" France stumbled at that, the loud screaming in his ear sending his equilibrium into tumble cycle, causing his head to spin and pound against the inside of his skull. With a hiss he grasped at his head and felt his knees go out from under him. Ultimately he ended up on his ass, clenching his teeth and willing the pain away, while England looked on in confusion. "Fr-France?"

Said nation merely cursed under his breath, taking deep breaths as the wave of nausea slowly passed. England knelt in front of him, whispering soothingly to him and stroking along his hairline, his cheek bone, and eventually ending up tangled in his hair, massaging his scalp. Were he a cat, and not feeling as if he were ready to die, France would have purred as he rested his forehead against England's chest.

"When you feel like you can handle drinking something, I have a tonic that will make you feel better," England said softly. France only nodded weakly and breathed in deeply. England was wearing a very nice cologne today.

"Why," France started before wincing and having to take a deep breath and wait for the pounding in his skull to slow before continuing. But by then he didn't even know what he wanted to ask. So he didn't continue, just mumbled a quiet, "Never mind."

England chuckled, slowly moving France's face so that he could look at his face. "Yeah, you know, with you being such a pansy right now, the added clean shave really does make you seem like a little brat."

France merely cursed his prostitute of a mother to hell, and England shrugged before kissing him on the forehead.

Now that couldn't go without question.

But it had to as suddenly France's body was on the move, and he found himself face to face with the toilet yet again. Despite all his years of voyeurism, of watching and analyzing and predicting and learning, he had definitely underestimated the Brit. And when he heard England cackling at him before declaring that they would have to go out to the bar again that night to show off his hairless chin, he realized how he had managed to do so.

France had been a voyeur of humans and nations.

England was a _monster_.


End file.
